


Timeless

by horologiiums



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Aging, Angst, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horologiiums/pseuds/horologiiums
Summary: Byleth stays young, while Claude only grows ever older.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 23
Kudos: 106





	Timeless

It’s when she notices the crinkles around his eyes that stay put even after he lets his smile fall that Byleth begins to feel genuine fear.

They were enjoying a meal together, making light jokes about this and that. Claude shared an amusing story about one of the estate gardeners, how she was always so clumsy, to the point where she slipped on some soil she had just tended to. Her watering can somehow flew out of her hands and flipped upside down onto her head. He described it as “a tumble so outrageous that you would need to see it to believe it”, and the couple laughed heartily, their voices meshing together into a wondrous chorus.

But when the laughing naturally settles, when their smiles recede and their expressions return to neutrality, Byleth doesn’t look away from her husband’s face,  _ can’t  _ look away. She sincerely wishes that she could, wishes she could hide not only herself from inevitable fate, but also protect Claude from the ebb and flow of time’s cruel hand.

Claude is thirty-four.

Byleth is sure she must be thirty-eight.

Claude looks his age.

Byleth, however, looks exactly as she did seventeen years ago.

Her unbeating heart wretches every time she sees her reflection after that, and it twists like it’s being repeatedly sliced at by a scythe when Claude is in the reflection with her.

Her eyes are shimmering, her skin is luminous and unblemished, her hair is silky and smooth.

His eyes are ever so gradually losing their luster, his tanned skin is paling, his hair is frizzy here and there, one too many white streaks visible in his otherwise dark brown locks.

She keeps her distance from all reflective surfaces if she can help it, discreetly stores away anything that reveals the revolting, unearthly image of herself.

She doesn’t want to see it. She doesn’t want to accept it. She doesn’t want to acknowledge it, so she hides all traces of it from sight. But deep within the darkest clefts of her soul, she knows it to be the truth.

Byleth stays young, while Claude only grows ever older.

* * *

It doesn’t take Claude long to realize what’s troubling her, why the swords and silver decorative hangings mounted on the walls begin disappearing. He’s always been extremely perceptive but it’s not only that. Byleth knows that it’s troubling him too, maybe for even longer than she initially thought, before she went into hiding from her reflection.

He’s just as aware as she is that he’s aging, that his days are numbered, and that he’s involuntarily leaving her behind as he’s forcibly pulled by the clock’s unforgiving cycles.

He still sees her youthful appearance every day, after all.

But neither of them make mention of it, not yet. It remains an unspoken awareness, an irrefutable truth that both of them so desperately want to destroy in a single, decisive blow.

* * *

There comes a time when Byleth crouches down on both knees, hands folded before her chest in prayer, and she pleads for Sothis to help her, to allow her to age, to allow her body to catch up with Claude’s so they may pass into the afterlife together.

It’s all she wants, to grow old and feeble but still hopelessly in love with the man she wed many moons ago under a cloudless sky full of stars.

She doesn’t blame Sothis for what’s become of her, could never blame her, as she’s saved her life countless times in the past. But when Byleth was gifted the powers of a goddess, she never dreamed the consequences would dial to this.

She calls out to Sothis for hours, sometimes even purposely teasing her, doing anything possible to get a rouse out of her.

She waits. She hopes.

Ultimately, Byleth receives no response.

But she never stops praying.

* * *

It finally happens when Claude is forty-five.

It’s the late evening and he’s been writing some documents, tying up some loose ends, or so he says. But he stops writing not too long after he begins, sets his quill down, and rubs at his elbow.

It’s been going on for a while, this pain in his dominant arm. He doesn’t complain about it much and Byleth is aware that she will never fully understand how it feels, but considering he’s requested professional advice on its condition and received medicinal tea to help ease the tension, she imagines the pain must be quite considerable.

It’s the result of countless years of pulling back taut bowstrings, of fighting in a war, of defending himself from those who would wish to harm him.

It’s another telltale sign of age.

Byleth is sitting next to Claude the entire time and when he winces, clicking his tongue at his own massaging, she stands and makes for the small table where a brew of the medicine is already waiting to be consumed. He offers her a soft thanks before her back fully turns to him.

As strange as it is to think so, Byleth wishes she could feel the pains of her body aging the way Claude does.

Just as she’s about done filling his tea cup, she hears him speak from his spot at the desk.

“My love.”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to force yourself to stay with me.”

Byleth’s breath catches on its way up her throat and she nearly drops the pot, her grip faltering and the container suddenly feeling much heavier than it did a second ago. The cup on the desk overflows with the medicinal drink but it’s the least of her concerns.

Claude doesn’t say anything more, and after far too many moments of an uneasy, noxious silence, Byleth sets the pot down with a light clack.

Her pulse is pounding in her ears and it sounds like lightning strikes. Her head is spinning, tossing her around and around as a whirlwind would. Her stomach is churning and her legs are going numb, like she’s bleeding out.

And her heart— her heart is  _ rupturing. _

She rotates reluctantly, and faces him.

Their gazes lock and Byleth sees every line on his face, sees the darkening circles under his eyes that aren’t just from a lack of sleep anymore. His lips aren’t as full as they once were, and the colour of his hair on both his head and jawline is fading, slowly but surely losing its pigment and giving in to white.

She’s scared of what’s happening, scared of what they both know but silently agreed to not discuss in the past.

He’s...

Claude speaks her thoughts for her.

“I’m getting old.”

_ And I’m not. _

Hearing him acknowledge it, hearing him say the words in such an honest, strained tone makes Byleth’s blood run cold.

But his voice steadfastly shifts to detachment. He’s pretending to be unaffected, to give her a choice, but the storm in his eyes is so fierce, so severe, so  _ sad,  _ it betrays all he’s trying to offer her: an out. “I trust you. I don’t doubt the vows you made to me… but if you don’t want this anymore, just say the word. You don’t have to love me. It’s not what you deserve.”

What he says feels like a bite from a wyvern, crushing her chest, grinding it into dust. She knows that he’s not trying to force her into doing anything she doesn’t want, knows that he’s coming from a place of nothing but affection and love. He’s suggesting only what he believes is best for her, but she’s frustrated in the wake of his insolent audacity nevertheless.

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve.” she replies icily, and only realizes after the fact that she may have been too harsh.

Claude looks away from her but he doesn’t appear to be dejected by her scolding. Still, his eyes remain haunted, lost in the hourglass of his mind, and Byleth’s agitation slips away. This is just as hard on him as it is on her.

Ignoring the mess she made on the table, Byleth moves back over to Claude. He won’t look at her when she asks for him to, so she cups his cheek with a hand and gently angles his face in her direction. His tortured gaze still averts hers and she feels like she’s suffocating, won’t be able to breathe until he returns her sentiment.

“Look at me.” It’s not so much of a command as it is a beg, her voice earnest and imploring.

It takes a while, but finally, he makes eye contact. She wonders what he’s looking for when his weary eyes search hers, but comes up with nothing.

“I will always love you,” she presses her forehead to his, places the palm that isn’t against his face on his chest, over his heart, “with everything I am.”

It’s not a lie. She doesn’t care about how old and grey and decrepit he becomes, doesn’t care what he looks like or how much of a burden he thinks he will turn into. She fell in love with him for who he was on the inside, for his mind, for his humor. For his caring and sincerity, for his devotion and for his love. For  _ his _ everything.

She doesn’t care about what he becomes physically.

She just wishes she could become all of those things  _ with _ him. She wants time to stop. She doesn’t want to abandon him, not again.

Byleth presses her lips to his and, while he hesitates at first, Claude reciprocates. It starts chaste, reassuring, but it escalates quickly and ignites into a burning desire when he tries pulling her body flush against his. Byleth trails her hand down his chest and settles it between his legs, touching him encouragingly through his clothes. She wants to lose herself in the needy moan that escapes him.

“I want you.” she says into his mouth between kisses, and he lets loose a carnal grunt in response. “I only want to be with you, Claude.”

They move out of the study and into their sleeping quarters. Quick work is made of their clothes, and before long, they deposit themselves onto the bed, with only a single candle flame bearing witness to their yearning lovemaking.

Through it all, Byleth closes her eyes, and outruns reality.

When he pushes into her, the pleasure she experiences is unchanged. The way his hips move against hers feels the same as it did the first time after their wedding twenty years ago, albeit they’re both much more experienced now. The way he kneads her breasts, caresses the sensitive spot between her legs, the way he kisses her lips and sucks at her neck, it’s all exactly as it always has been. And when they peak together, they breathe a string of each other’s names and “I love you”’s into one another’s skin.

It’s safe. It’s comforting. It’s  _ still. _

It’s only after Claude moves off of her and promptly falls into a careful sleep at her side that reality catches up with Byleth.

She looks at his face, sees his age accentuated by the bedside candlelight glow, hears it in his quiet snoring that has developed in recent years, and she remembers once again that she is timeless.

She wants to vomit, wants to rip out her hair, break her skin and cruelly punish herself for being immune to the natural fate of all things — the natural fate that her beloved Claude is steadily falling victim to alone.

Instead, she holds his hand, feels more bones than flesh on his fingers, and follows him into slumber with fragmented tears clinging to her eyelashes.

* * *

He doesn’t ever tell her with words, but Byleth soon realizes that the documents that Claude spends too much time writing are actually letters.

He’s spent years searching for a way to change their fate, to save Byleth from being frozen in time. He speaks to renowned scholars, sends countless appeals to sorcerers far and wide, and the two of them work together with whoever they can on top of their already strenuous schedules to find a cure.

The search goes on, on and on. 

She watches him, watches how he never gives up. But in the end, he never finds a means of rescuing her.

* * *

Byleth starts wearing clothes that cover every inch of her skin, and hides her hands with gloves.

* * *

When he’s fifty-seven, his vision starts to fail him.

It’s not the same as their bespectacled friend, where eyeglasses could correct the issue. A foggy, grey cloud hangs over the entirety of Claude’s right pupil, and another is forming over his left.

He hates having to depend on people because of it, hates having to deal with being pitied, but he readily accepts any aid Byleth offers.

“Thank you, my love.” he says when she guides him from his desk to their bed. He didn’t necessarily need the help, his sight isn’t that far gone yet and he knows the layout of their quarters like the back of his hand, but Byleth doesn’t want him to trip over a fold in the throw rug again.

They reach the bed and Claude sits. When he yawns, his face scrunches and the creases on his face are becoming so deep, so long and heavy that Byleth needs to look away, not from him and his older appearance, but from the fact that his time is quickly running out, while hers ticks on forevermore.

“What were you writing?” she settles next to him and asks, hoping to distract herself from her aching dread, but she ends up staring at his hands on his lap. They’re looking more and more frail with each day that passes, the bulging veins under his dry skin threatening to break through the surface. The two-toned ring she had presented to him on the day of his confession over thirty years ago atop the Goddess Tower still fits his finger, but it slides and spins around the digit more easily than ever before.

Beneath her glove, Byleth’s own ring fits as perfectly as it always has.

Claude doesn’t answer her right away, plays with his wedding band and twirls it as if he had just read her mind. Byleth finally spares his face a glance. Downcast eyes, the corners of his mouth hanging too low, dark skin paling even more than it once was.

He looks old.

As old as he is.

“My will.” he finally confesses.

* * *

When he’s sixty-three, illness finds him.

* * *

The fighter he always has been, Claude manages to hang onto life for another year, but the healers file out of his and Byleth’s shared room when he uses the final traces of his precious strength to request privacy.

He’s laying down, looks almost completely serene. Byleth clutches his wrinkled hand tightly, so tightly, as tightly as she can without hurting him, which isn’t very tight at all.

She knows what’s coming.

She wants—  _ needs  _ time to stop. She needs to catch up with him, can’t leave him like this.

“My love…” he breathes unsteadily, voice haggard and dragging and  _ old. _ His eyes flutter open, unfocused and mostly unseeing, but he attempts to seek her out anyway, angling his face in the direction where he knows that she sits.

Byleth reaches with her free, ungloved hand and carefully cradles Claude’s sunken cheek, doing everything within her power to ignore how vibrant and healthy and  _ young  _ her flesh is compared to his own. He had expressed his want to hold her bare hands earlier, and she couldn’t bring herself to refuse him. “I’m here.” her voice practically breaks.

A contented sigh escapes him and there’s a ghost of a smile weakly pulling on his thin lips.

He looks happy.

A sob threatens to rip out of Byleth’s throat.

“Than’you… for ev’rythin...” It’s barely a whisper and his words are slurring. He’s slipping away and it’s too much, more than she can take.

Oxygen flees from Byleth too quickly but when she tries to refill her lungs, it feels like she’s taking in water. Her vision is blurring, both from the tears pooling in her eyes and the violent lightheadedness that consumes her entirely.

She’s unsure if Claude can hear her panic, unsure if he even knows where he is anymore. She’s unsure if he’s as scared as she is and she’s unsure if he can even  _ feel _ anything anymore.

Still, one final message passes through him and Byleth shatters, irreparable.

“...’m sorry...”

His eyes fall shut, and Claude never moves again.

* * *

She doesn’t know how long she sits at his side, wailing and choking on her cries but it feels like forever; with her eternal lifespan, she thinks it may as well be.

She didn’t know she was capable of feeling such sadness. Even when her father passed, she didn’t cry like this, didn’t  _ feel _ like this. Perhaps it’s because she’s failed. Because she couldn’t follow her lover naturally, like a normal human could. Because in his final moments, he  _ apologized, _ as if he figured her curse was  _ his _ fault.

Her voice gives out eventually and her body runs out of tears to cry, but she can’t stop. She weeps soundlessly and tearlessly, heaving for air that won’t come.

His hand is so cold in hers, so heavy and limp, but Byleth refuses to let Claude fall into a never-ending sleep alone.

It’s impossible to decipher what he wanted for her, all he ever gave her were vague “I want you to be happy” speeches. It could have been his way of telling her that she is free to choose, that he would keep loving her regardless of her final decision.

She will never know for certain, but she’s made her choice.

This is what will make her happy.

The dagger she kept hidden on her person glints in the light filtering through the windows when she withdraws it from its sheath. In the steel blade, she sees her face, and it’s the first time her stare has greeted itself in so very long. She’s red-eyed, devastated, crumbling apart.

Young.

Byleth’s life is capable of ending. She knows it to be true. Her internal clock may no longer turn, but nothing can save her if she rips her surrogate heart from her chest.

She prays for Sothis’s forgiveness and understanding.

The tip of the blade is pointed at her chest, where a heartbeat should be, and too many thoughts, images, memories come to her.

She was afraid when her father was killed. She was afraid when she discovered that she had fallen into a five year slumber. She was afraid when she didn’t recognize the man waiting for her in the Goddess Tower on the day of the promised reunion.

She was afraid every time her allies had gotten themselves injured, she was afraid of the bloody, ruthless war, she was afraid when the man who slipped a verdant ring onto her finger turned his back to her, unknowing when the day would come when he would rejoin her and stand by her side.

She was afraid when she saw those first crinkles refuse to abandon the corners of Claude’s eyes.

But this—

She’s not afraid of this.

Byleth looks at Claude one final time, pale and ghastly. Wrinkled and old. Unmoving and silent.

Dead.

“I love you.”

They’re her last words as she plunges the dagger into her chest.

* * *

.

.

.

* * *

She doesn’t awaken again, not really, but when her eyes open and she sees her beloved’s reflection, elderly but smiling at her, she’s relieved when she sees her own mirrored self looking just as old as his.

**Author's Note:**

> no one else was going to write about old, wrinkly clod so I took up the task. I didn’t ask to be a ~~villain~~ hero but I needed to be one 😩but really.. you ever think about.... Byleth... & like.. does she age... does she not..... I get really emo thinking about this.
> 
> I was laying in bed a few nights ago & this came to me. of course I had to write the entire rough draft in a single day. I’ve never written a fic in present tense before, so I’m sorry that I subjected you to this test run lol this is very melodramatic & angsty but I kinda like melodrama?? I just hope it wasn’t TOO extreme lol
> 
> thanks if you made it to the end! I hope you enjoyed! ...actually no, I hope you didn't enjoy because I straight up killed my favourite characters akdhskdf
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/toast_ryu) where I cry about clod & byleth all day sobss


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